I can never think about my village without visualizing the scene of the morning that screams comfort and nostalgia; nostalgia for the moments, the people, the conversations, and the smells.
An early sunny morning, the sun rises high above the crystal-clear blue sky, very bright, warm, and soothing. A soft breeze sways the tree beside my terrace, its leaves rustling like a sweet melody. The wind carries the earthy scent of cow dung. Everyone is gathered on the terrace, having morning tea while chattering and laughing.
This scene is the essence of my village for me. The heart of my nostalgia.
Afternoons used to be filled with fields. I used to walk in them with my cousin while she harvested saag, and I simply wandered around, carefree.
Every evening echoed with the joyful screams of children playing, running here and there, and wandering through the village like a free bird. No restrictions, no rules. Just endless games and freedom.
The villagers would often say, “They behave like they’ve just been freed from jail when they come here!”
Which was true, as going to visit our village was a way to escape from the busy city. Everything used to be peaceful and calming.
Every memory is deeply engraved not just in my brain but in my heart.
The place where nights were not just nights, but a dream from which one would never want to wake up.
At night, the terrace would transform into one giant bed, lined corner to corner with bedsheets. The sky in the village was pure bliss to witness.
It was not just a dark sky like here. It used to be a huge blinking sky, filled with stars. And the whole terrace would glow with its light, even in the darkness.
The terrace would be filled with whispers and stories.
The sound of insects was the most beautiful song to listen to — I could listen to them for hours.
And the whole village would talk to each other from their terraces and share laughter.
But what I loved even more than the night was how the village came alive during Dashain.
Dashain in the village wasn’t just a festival. It was a season that held everyone together. Huge Pandals were made, with massive Murtis of gods and goddesses. The whole village turned into a chaos of lights and Bhajans for nine straight days.
Every evening, the girls of the village carried handmade clay Diyas to each temple, lighting them with quiet devotion.
As the sun set, they played traditional games with dolls and sang folk songs.
A village that once echoed with memories and laughter now feels like an empty place.
Everything has changed — no more mornings like that, no more wandering in the fields, and no more evening games.
The village that once felt like freedom now feels like a cage.
Now, my heart only aches to revisit that version of my village, and to once again play hide and seek with friends, and feel carefree and alive again.
Not to return to the village, but to the memory it holds.